Paper and Dice

No, Really

2010-02-21T16:04:00.001-08:00

Barim had done a fair number of things in his greasy, turbulent life that he regretted. The money was usually the reason, and he was the sort of man who had very expensive habits, so he just kept doing things he didn't want to think about. After a while, it became a kind of repugnant ritual.

Sitting in the dismal environs of Cove, he was twice as uncomfortable as normal. Cove was not a place for the weak; there were always shadows watching and waiting behind the decrepit wood and stone corners of Cove's muddy streets. Barim was not a man to be trifled with, certainly; he started as a paid murderer and later dabbled in sorcery. But desperation can drive someone to do foolish things, and Barim often reminded himself that more people are killed by fools than any other type of person. Caution was his watchword.

However, he was especially nervous at the moment because of the work he was waiting to be paid for. It seemed simple enough, if extremely unpleasant, and he was promised ample payment for it. You have a friend who is a sorcery master, they'd told him. Have the sorceror open you a doorway to the place called Ni'rhus, and there will be someone waiting for you. Use your contacts and skills to take this person into the Sanctum of Voloth Pridefallen, and leave him there. Afterwards, send your men out to start rumors that a Lady Angharad had gone to Hell on a quest.

He knew the Sanctum from his studies on sorcery, so he assumed that this person would be someone very unpopular. The place was crawling with devils. His heart was cold about leaving anyone at the Shrine, but money was money and his stores of kehtallah were running low.
But he got a brief look at the bound and unconscious man, and recognized the noble features immediately. Worse, when he finally got back again, he found out his sorceror friend had vanished without a trace.

They are not paying me enough for this, he thought. If anyone finds out what I did, nothing will save me. And I think someone does know.

His contact sat down. The man was thin and indifferent, with an exceptionally pointed nose that comprised his one and only distinguishing characteristic. “Work is finished?”

“Yes,” said Barim quietly. “Just as you asked.” He narrowed his eyes at the man. “I hope you know how important it is to keep my work a secret.”

“Yes,” said the man without inflection. “We are very much aware.”

Barim felt the fight before it happened. As in so many times before, his blades were out before he consciously understood he was being attacked, and two of his attackers were down. One gasped out life through his ripped throat, the other was dead instantly by a precise blow through the heart. But there were others, pressing too hard for him to try a spell. Quickly, he dodged and spun to gain ground and escape, wounding two more badly but he was astonished at how good they were.

These are far better than veteran soldiers or second-rank assassins, he thought in shock. This must be an expensive ambush.

Even so, he killed another of them with a whistling cut to the inner thigh and a follow-up that split the man's temple. But then a spike of agony drove itself into the back of his head, and he fell, dazed. He struggled to get up again, but then hands were on him, binding and twisting. There were several more blows, and then a voice said, “No, I need him awake.”

Abruptly, he found himself looking at the ice-water gray eyes of a woman with tidy features and a wicked scar running up her neck over her jawline. He had a brief impression of short, glossy black hair and the start of memory that said he'd seen her somewhere before, somewhere important.

“So precious,” said the woman. “We need you some more, Barim, we need you. But not with what you know.”

Something happened to Barim's mind. It folded in on itself, smoldered in spots and quickly grew black like a piece of paper in a fire. When he woke again, he was in a silk and velvet bed at the Chained Nymph inn, and he only remembered a very successful night of gambling and drinking. With all his newfound money, there was no need for a job, which was good because he'd been looking for one for far too long

Sitting up and stretching, it suddenly occurred to him that he'd never been to the great city of Yhelm. He quickly decided to pay it a call after another day in the pleasure city of Arn. Some part of him had this nagging sensation that he'd forgotten something important, but he dismissed it as a result of getting too drunk the night before.

Rumors

2010-02-18T17:51:00.000-08:00

“I heard a rumor,” said Kelvic, and then took a long pull of his beer.

Chas, huge hands busy with sorting bottles and mugs, glanced at Kelvic for a moment and then at Shar and Gimble, sitting off to one side. The long stretch of bar counter was dominated at the far end by a raucous crowd of well-wishers, pickpockets, unemployed bards and a trio who had emerged from the Tower of Folly with some actual treasure for a change.

“Go on then,” said Chas.

“I heard,” said Kelvic, his thin face furtive as he paused for dramatic effect. “I heard that Lady Angharad and her people... went into HELL.”

This completely failed to impress his three listeners. Chas didn't even change expression. Shar looked skeptically at Kelvic, and downed another swallow of his liquor. Gimble looked as if he were trying to understand what Kelvic just said.

“Hell,” said Gimble slowly. “Hell like... Tower of Folly hell? Hellbore hell?”

“No, you damned stonebrains, I mean HELL. Pit of. Godprison. The Great Hall of Perdition. Dominion of the Iron Crown.”

“What in the world would they go there for?” drawled Shar, pouring himself another glass. “At least you can come back from the Tower with something. Sounds like mule crap to me.”

“Fine, call it mule crap. But I'll tell you what I think.”

“I don't want to hear it, but you're going to tell me anyway.”

Kelvic gave them all a smug look. “I think they are going there to find Martel's soul, and kill him for good.”

Despite the astonishingly unlikely nature of the scenario, Kelvic's listeners had to admit this sounded very impressive.

“Where'd you hear this?” asked Chas, folding his arms and leaning back against the shelves.

“Word's just floating around, I tell you. Ashan, the City-Maker, he knows how to open a door to Hell. Aren't his people friends to the underworld? It's true.”

Gimble, thinking very hard indeed, sipped at his wine and started to speak. At this point, one of the unemployed bards lost a lot of clothing to the applause of the large party, and Gimble was distracted into silence. Shar, on the other hand, snorted.

“I've been to the Hellbore, out with the Gold-and-Stone Company, and I've even been to Meerashandalai's island. Hell's worse than that? Yeah, I'll say Angharad knows her business; she took Martel, didn't she. And Hope. And she's run the Tower. But Hell? Nah, she would have run Meerashandalai's first. That's as close to Hell as I ever want to get.”

“True words,” rumbled Chas.

“Lady Angharad's still redeeming the honor of her family,” said Gimble, half-distracted now. “Everybody knows that. And didn't you see the play? The priest WOULD follow her into Hell. And her friends, too. They're loyal to her.”

“See? Even Gimble 'All Rationality' Mariikson agrees,” said Kelvic. “I'll say it again, Lady Angharad's company will outstrip even the Avabrondan, or the Throttled Cat!”

“You never said any such thing before,” muttered Shar.

Slapping the counter, Kelvic half stood. “I'm tired of your mouth, Shar! You just don't want to admit her group's better than yours!”

“That'll do,” interrupted Chas, and leaned forward. “I'll make you a wager, Kelvic, and this is it... I'll wager you room and board here, all the beer you can drink, for a month if she's actually gone into Hell and come back again. And if she hasn't, well, you'll be my scullery maid for a month instead with no pay.”

Shar started laughing, but Kelvic stood up and offered his hand. “Done!”

Taking the offered hand, Chas shook it briskly. “Oh, and Kelvic... she has to come back from Hell too for you to win the bet.” He grinned mirthlessly. “Anybody can get in, after all.”

HRGH

2010-02-08T18:52:00.000-08:00

HRGH should be an acronym for a particular state of mind. Something disgruntled, vaguely annoyed and very pernicious, perhaps.

At this point, I know I don't happen to have a lot of readers, but I do apologize to those I have for the radio silence. Considering that you are all certainly here for fine reading and not to hear some regurgitation of an-all-too-ordinary life, I'll leave out the details and just say that my brain has been utterly exhausted for anything other than writing that I'd never post here.

No, seriously, it is that bad. Or unpolished. Whichever.

Anyway, I thought I might share some thoughts I tripped across while planning my next leg of DnD. As the reputation of the characters continues to grow, so do the misconceptions and assumptions. While considering just what one nation or other might think of these people, I realized that this facet of becoming a hero is rarely touched on... at least, in my experience. In your so-called classic fantasy tale, the heroes are recognized for doing some great and vast thing, and everybody thinks they are wonderful. Occasionally, there's some opposition (usually in the form of a political contender or some other unscrupulous sort), but that's generally all until the Next Evil Guy shows up. Some people at this point may mention Game of Thrones about now, but that is NOT a classic fantasy novel. In fact, wonderful though the world and characterizations are, there really isn't anything happening on the same scale as your classic 'save the world from great Evil' story.

Now, I run my DnD games as something fairly gritty, and I stay away from a lot of the tropes present in what people usually call High Fantasy. This is largely because I find High Fantasy stories to be predictable, trite and ... uninteresting. I like happy endings, of course, but the usual High Fantasy tale reads like everything is staged and stilted. I always feel like the heroes didn't really earn it. This is especially true in just about any story with a Prophecy in it. There's a whiff of predestination in prophecy stories that makes you wonder why the poor villains bother in the first place. It isn't any wonder that, given what people expect from fantasy, most fantasy novels don't spend a lot of time considering the problems of being suddenly very popular.

My players realized how much weight their characters had in the campaign world last session, and they've started to discover what that means. Word does get around, and at this point, thousands of people who have never actually met the characters know who they are and something about what they've done. Now, they are dealing with racial stereotypes and cultural expectations. People are attempting to gain their support for political causes, as well as involve them in various ventures. People want to be seen with them because they are famous. Some of the characters have recently suffered a slew of marriage offers, and the priest had to deal with an intensely talented but extremely annoying method actor who wanted to 'get a feel for' who he was. They've discovered that some people don't actually care so much about their heroic deeds. These people just want to make use of the fame and fortune.

This, and some work on With Iron, got me thinking about the villain side of the fame coin. Just as there would be some who don't believe the heroes have actually done all they say, there would certainly be some who think of the famous villain as misunderstood or wronged or even heroic, depending on how they view the villain's activities. Imagine the startlement of a band of heroes attempting to apprehend some unpleasant killer when they encounter a peasant village who refuses to tell them where the killer is. "Because of him, all the bandits are dead. He saved us," they say.

Perspective is a clever, clever thing.

When in Doubt

2009-12-09T10:28:00.000-08:00

Chas the Bull, publican of the Blue Shadow inn, folded his hamhock arms and leaned back against the racks of liquor with a grin. The two men in front of him continued the debate.

“And after they destroyed Hope, they came marching out from the crypt entrance, and challenged that bastard Beckhardt right there,” said the thin man with great intensity. His thin face was bright-eyed with the story, and his gloved hands danced like swallows in front of him. From his golden complexion, dark hair, and pointed features he was a Purayu.

The other man, elbows on the bar and brooding over a tankard, was heavy in the shoulders and brows, with a good many fighting scars on his forearms. He shook his head slowly. “That's not what I heard. I heard that, when the sky cleared, Beckhardt's army found them crawling up out of the grave dirt. And then Beckhardt threw down his sword.”

“That makes no sense,” interjected the Purayu. “Why would he do that? And if they were buried in grave dirt, how did they fight Hope?”

“If I knew the answer, I'd be working for Lady Angharad and not hiring out to protect you,” came the bleak reply.

This made the Purayu scoff. He was polite about it; it was just a sudden arch of the eyebrows and a faint sneer. Chas' grin widened slightly, but he straightened up to remind the two that he was there. Egos got touchy in a place like the Blue Shadow. It was a place where old veteran adventurers would come to trade stories about their glory days, and discuss how hard it had been to retire from The Life. A lot of adventurers came through there to meet the famous and prove their own place, and some of them got pretty terse about it.

Of course, Chas had built the Blue Shadow in Last Chance, which was a town that wouldn't even exist except for the notorious Tower of Folly. The Tower loomed about two miles out of town, and Last Chance started as a cluster of merchants waiting to capitalize on the steady stream of desperate treasure hunters and foolhardy glory seekers who attempted to brave the Tower. Now it was a town of its own, populated by the sons of merchants and the adventurers who confronted the absurd lethality of the Tower and decided to retire.

Even though very little of interest had come out of the Tower in recent years, it had become a kind of pilgrimage for people who dealt in sudden death and heroic violence. They would come to Last Chance, spend a lot of money to celebrate or bolster their courage, and then go to wander the now-emptied entry halls of the Tower. The brave (or stupid) went much further, and most of them didn't come out again.

“Lady Angharad has to have actors and bards run around to protect her reputation,” continued the Purayu. “The common man is my herald. Everyone knows that I won the Rout of Dardanti. I was in Pesh for the Ogre War, and I even fought a gavarrhan in the wasteland of the Dohoroz. Hope was some kind of washed out healer turned bad, from what I hear. Not so impressive.”

“Maybe so,” said the brooding man. “But her people killed Martel.”

The counter got quiet for a moment. Hope was something abstract, a shadow from a legend up north where the Leandrites sang of holy war and danced in their courtly tapestries. But Martel was real to many of them. Many had lost friends, lovers, parents, children to Martel. Even dead, Martel's reputation loomed in their minds.

“If they did,” said the Purayu politely, “They must have gotten lucky. Or Martel wasn't as dangerous as all that.”

Chas laughed, and some of the grizzled, jade-eyed people drinking alone at the bar smiled. Chas rarely laughed, but when he did, it was to put someone in their place.

“You never fought Martel,” announced Chas to the Purayu man, who looked unimpressed. Chas poured himself some mead, looking down at the Purayu with his small, sharp eyes. “But I did, and if it wasn't for my companions, I'd be dead right now.”

Even if anyone doubted Chas, it was bad form to dispute the reputation of the man serving you drink, but the Purayu's hesitation was enough for Chas to push on. “We went against Martel, six of us. We were four when we escaped him, and we might have been less but Martel let us go. Who can say why? The Gorecrow liked to mock his foes.” Chas took a deep pull from his mug. “Lady Angharad went for him with only her three companions, and the fight burned down part of Arn. So, even if I had no grudge for Martel, I tell you that I'd respect her and hers for finally bringing the monster down.”

There was a murmur of assent from many of the older adventurers, and then someone lifted their tankard.

“Death of Martel,” he intoned in a somber voice.

“May the slain be content at last,” intoned another.

“Death of Martel,” filled the Blue Shadow, and then silence as most of the occupants drank.

Chas, mug emptied, looked down at the Purayu again. “Heading into the Tower?”

“...yes, of course. I've six companions, and this worthy here.”

The brooding man lifted his drink slightly in acknowledgment. “Slayer's Brotherhood, second class.”

Chas bumped the man's tankard with his mug for acknowledgment, and then nodded at the Purayu. “Good luck. I do have a question, though... you said you'd fought the gavarrhan. Well, I never have, but I have a couple of friends who did, and they told stories that made me lose my hair. So, did you win?”

The Purayu man blinked, started to say something, and then stopped.

Something Different?

2009-12-04T15:42:00.000-08:00

One of the problems with blogging is coming up with something to say, when your words have been used up on expansive research papers or fragmentary but brilliant notes that never grow into anything brighter. It is even more difficult if you don't happen to be prone to small talk, and prefer to only speak when you have something very particular to say.

Aside from the grind of school work and the flurry of life as a busy middle-aged professional, I've had little time to dedicate to my work outside of random one or two page spats here and there. I've had a couple of promising stories evolve in directions that destroyed the original intent of the story, and rebirthed themselves as something entirely different... and in one case, I can forgive that. The story happens to be something fairly promising.

But frankly, I'm tired of something being promising. I'm tired of hammering away at projects I feel no fire for, and it seems ages since I've had a drop of inspiration. Ask me to come up with fresh ideas, and I can spin them forever, but none of the ideas I come up with at the moment particularly appeal to me. They all seem a little too much like work to be pleasant, and right now, I'd like to be working on something pleasant.

Where does a piece of writing cross the line? When does it happen? Everything I come up with these days ends up lifeless, and I cannot seem to resuscitate my writing. I find it particularly entertaining that after a long period of silence, I find myself writing here about being unable to write.

Oh, the agony and the irony.

Oh My Goodness

2009-10-17T21:55:00.001-07:00

Sometimes you blink and the time whistles by like a bullet. By the time you figure out where the bullet came from, you have to dodge the next bullet. Now I've got some cover.
Just a couple of odd notes: First, given all the time I'm spending at a college these days, I'd like to mention that my experience of the average men's bathroom puts considerable doubt into our reproductive method. Seriously, the accuracy is Lacking. I'm amazed our population is as high as it is. I've heard tell that women's bathrooms are worse, but I have my doubts.
Second, Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness is lodged in my brainstem. This means I have Kurtz, in stereo, 24/7. The horror!
What follows is a kind of warm-up for a game session that I am working on. Yes, it is postmodern, surreal and fragmented. But I like tossing things like this out for players.

"The Lady is indisposed. Come back another time."

From a cobwebbed balcony, he watches the gray dancers below as they gust back and forth over the dance circle. They laugh and smile and touch with eyes, but they are silent, and their music is a succession of thin, strange memories that tangle the air like the clinging gossamer that blankets everything in the place. He watches them, forever apart, and he keeps no opinion. They are different from what was, and so is he; even his oath is finished, a trail of blood-stained shards leading back to a day when the court shone with art and beauty and he bent the knee to a great lady. And yet, he remains.
He must keep them safe. The Mother of Terror nests above, and must be watched over. Even in a place where forever can be measured, things must be done in the proper time, and time must be dealt with properly.
But caught in the timeless, he is alone, more than he has ever been. Once, it was his way. Now he has little choice. There is only one other court in the Manor now, and he will not go there.

"All I wish is to be free, but I keep my promise."

She must always run.
Her companions would help, but they fear him even more than she does. She cannot go back to her home, because it is full of memories that kill. She cannot go back to her brethren, because they are locked to a court where death cannot exist and a monster lords over them with his pain. So, proud as she has been, she must run, because he is always searching. The sky is her enemy; the black birds will show him the trail. The trees do not talk to him, but he moves through them as easily as the wind. Once, the gate was open, but now she must race back and forth, because of the day when the second palace burned and the humans died and the Manor drifted into slumber.
She cannot go back, and she cannot leave, because she will not abandon her beloved friend. One day she may know whether she can be let go, but until then she must escape his attention. He is all unfeeling animal fury and hunger and anticipation, and she knows that running makes him chase her, but she is too afraid to stay still.
One day she may know, and then perhaps her promise will no longer be needed.

"Dreams? There are no dreams here. Everything is real."

Three, they watch the thing move slowly through a forest so gnarled and twisted that it is difficult to tell one tree from the next. The thing is equally awkward; all stilts and scarecrow, it moves like a crippled insect. But the three look next to the drifting lights that follow it, and the dark one nods.
"Something else comes," she whispers, and the other two pay attention; one swiftly, one slowly.
"For blood and wealth," says the hard-eyed one, and she smiles like an opened razor.
"Dancing, and then love, and then sleep," murmurs the third as if remembering.
"Foolish," bites the second. "One does not come here for joy."
"There is no joy in you," retorts the third, but her eyes are sleepy, and she strokes her clothing.
"What good is joy," snaps the second again, the sneer implicit. Her fists are clenched. "Joy is transient. It cannot last."
"Ah," sighs the third, touching her lips. "No matter how cold, your joy is enough. I have seen that."
The second cannot rebuke the third, because both fall silent at the whisper.
"Oh, the threads of the old shadow are coming, the old shadow unraveled and rewoven. The old shadow who left us before we were bound here. Come, sisters; we must sing."

"Redemption, like sin, is a human word, for human ideas. We tried to understand them, and it ruined us."

They watch over him. He stands, mid-step, his hair fanning out as if the wind around him had suddenly turned to ice, and the light that filters down through the glorious dome breaks around him through the uneven, pinkish crystal he resides within. They are small, dwarfed by the opalescence of the memorial tomb around him, and the place makes them restless, makes them feel alien and left out, just like his beauty does. They have accepted as much as they can, but they can do nothing for him. There is only the exorbitant tomb, full of the pale pinnacles of song from a hundred gold and diamond birds, full of sculpture so smooth that it seems grown, full of engravings so delicate and precise that the walls are a book. And yet, all this is not enough for him, and they fester at the inadequacy.
They want to belong.

"If you lose, I can go. If I lose, you can go. Simple."

Sometimes the ache and the longing was overwhelming. It was impossible to count how many deaths occurred here, nor how many times his companions changed. Others would come. Some went around him, dodged his wary eyes, and were snared. Others met him and he threw himself against them, a tornado of frustration and will. There was no point in warning them; nothing would come of it, save more blood among the flowers or another statue in the hall.
It had been too long, he thought, but he remembered fearing the dana aelf and their ways, and he remembered years of howling exultation, of steel and sweat and heat and breath. Sometimes the writing almost spoke to him, as if it could give him all that time back again, but everything else was nothing more than the hollow sounds of the great hall and the compelling oath, the silent and invisible goad that prickled over his heart like brambles.
He loved so much that he had no choice, and he no longer dreamt. He had heard that no one dreamt here, but then, he was more part of the hall than a human being now.
Watching the woods, he tapped a finger on his weapon, and waited for destiny to arrive.
Again.

"I cannot reconcile the fact of my son."

There is a mirror. He spends time staring at himself in the mirror, and it shivers like a pool of blood when his eyes touch it. Others do this too, when his eyes touch them. He is aware, but he is indifferent.
He picks up a crystal goblet, practically invisible but for its shape.
This, he thinks, is nothing but a collection of wounds that have not yet happened.
As if to punctuate this thought, he lets the goblet fall from his hand to shatter into jagged, beautiful points, scattered across a polished floor.
He studies this casual act of ruin for a long moment, and then realizes that there has been a lull in the singing. Turning slowly, looking past the bower of long-thorned white roses, he sees the crescent of shapes made ghostly by a waxing moon.
They attend me because they crave me, he thinks, not because they wish to.
Their singing resumes, another of the old songs (which he loves, though the songs have grown as pale as the space between them and the moon), and he turns away again to face the mirror.
What must I do, he thinks, and in a fit of sudden rage, he points at the shattered goblet.
"I wish for my court to dance."

Writing Pains

2009-09-23T20:50:00.000-07:00

I've been doing a great deal of writing lately, but I'm afraid none of it would be interesting except to scholars of literary criticism. Though it is certainly good practice, it doesn't scratch the creative itch very much. As a result, my writing brain is feeling increasingly restless, as if it just had a very large dinner composed entirely of popcorn. It wants something rich, fulfilling.

Work on my various projects has been slow, largely due to new workloads and some changes in schedule. Part of writing is always about schedules, and I'm afraid my creative outlets are just going to have to suffer a bit until I get back into a decent work rhythm. The small random bits of fiction I've been doing to whet my inspiration's appetite haven't been bad, but they really don't go anywhere for me.

However, as a very pleasant bit of news, I recently sent a copy of Dungeon magazine to writer Richard Pett for an autograph. My friends had so much fun with the dinner party for 'Prince of Redhand' that I wanted Mr. Pett to know about it, and it remains one of my absolute favorite adventures in any publication. Mr. Pett was very gracious about it all, and along with the autographed magazine, he sent his regards and thanks to all of you who participated. He was very entertained with my account of how things went, and very pleased that we enjoyed his work so much. If I'm ever in England, I'll have to be sure to stop in and cook for the man.

So, hey, all you players who made the Redhand dinner party happen? Take a bow.

That is one of the most rewarding aspects of creation for me; the trading of inspiration, and the wonder of seeing what other people do with the works you create. Of course, sometimes you run into the horrors of bad fanfic, but there is always going to be someone out there who sees a vision in your vision that you have never seen. When they describe it to you, your own breadth of vision is amplified and enhanced, and you add another color to your palette. Creative interplay of this sort occurs very often in RPGs, which is one reason I keep on playing them, and I am thankful for knowing as many clever, imaginative players and GMs as I do.

More when the sparks light up the kindling.

On Being a Cynic

2009-09-08T17:29:00.000-07:00

One of the natural drawbacks to being a cynic is the inclination to recognize the worst in human beings and to generally accept the worst as status quo. As such, I really don't need the world to keep reminding me of this fact, but the world isn't listening.

One of the natural drawbacks to being a writer is that people tend to assume that you are unprofessional, unreliable and generally not much of a contribution to society. As the emphasis on profit margins continues to grow, the low opinion of writers also increases. People see little value in the art of language, and I find it ironic that in putting aside the importance of good writing, they are also putting aside the value of good communication.

Previous entries have addressed the book 'Twilight', by Stephanie Meyer. In these entries, I defined a good AUTHOR as someone who successfully reaches an audience with their work, regardless of whether or not they intended their writing to do so. A good WRITER is someone who writes with technical skill. I continue to maintain that, voluntarily or not, Stephanie Meyer is a good AUTHOR. She communicates the feel of adolescence so well that it has created a chord of powerful sympathy in thousands of readers. This is a form of communication. If the purpose of literature is to generate an emotional reaction from the audience, Stephanie Meyer is quite successful in creating literature, because most people seem to either adore her work or absolutely detest it.

Interestingly, I notice that very few people offer up a way that she could have made the story better. Mostly, they just shoot down the notion of sparkly vampires, denigrate the sexual-stalker-dysfunctional over (and under) tones in the book, and so on. And on. Of course, this is similar to how much the fans of the book rant on about how beautiful the book is... because it is beautiful.

So, is it society or human nature that makes the population tend to polarize their opinions? People get so caught up in wanting to prove someone else wrong that they don't really address the issues outside of their own context. They don't want to offer a solution to a problem, they just want to point out that someone else's solution isn't going to work. We're seeing a lot of this in the government today; old grudges in the political arena are getting a lot of play, in my opinion, and I am heartily tired of the constant wrangling between people who use 'liberal' and 'conservative' as insults.

What words mean and how they are used is essential to communicating very clearly, and clear communication is essential to creating dialogue. Without dialogue, there is no true conversation. You only have two people making statements about themselves or their experiences at each other, and responding in the same way. When you boil down arguments, the majority of them come down to the fact that one person thinks the other person's experience is wrong. That's really all there is to it... but the thing is, if you don't understand the other person's experience, how can you really call it wrong?

Do I like Stephanie Meyer's writing? No, I sure don't. Do I like her main character? Absolutely not; she's a self-destructive, whiny, melodramatic adolescent who uses her intelligence to justify her own actions to herself. And yet, I recognize that point of view. I've seen that point of view, and I've been that adolescent. I also recognize that her writing reaches the lives of more people than mine probably ever will, and I can give her a nod of acknowledgment for that. It is an accomplishment, voluntary or not.

Similarly, do I like Obama? Not so much. He's just another politician, playing at being a politician. Do I like him better than McCain? Yes, I do, largely because I feel Obama is actually looking at things from a standpoint more appropriate to our changing circumstances. I will give him credit for his drive to follow through with ideas for health care and so forth. If nothing else, his attempts to create change have exposed a powerful undercurrent in the American public; the reactionary mess of the public health care debate is evidence that people are looking to find something to be angry at. Something concrete.

Whether you are outraged at 'Twilight' or ranting about 'bed wetting hippy liberals' or 'fundie warmongering conservatives', I think you're going to have to accept that these little items you are fixated on really don't matter so much. There is so much that needs cut out and replaced in how we live that if you focus all your energy on these tiny outrages, you're not paying attention to the big picture, and I don't think we can afford to ignore the big picture these days. The world is moving faster than we are, in terms of population, technology, social change and many other fields. The world is shrinking very quickly, and the shaky foundations we've built under us are showing their flaws.

Our flaws.

Sure, be angry. Be angry at the authors who get printed and make huge amounts of money. But rather than complain about them, or spend all your time writing forum posts about how awful they are.... write a better book. Write something that shows a related perspective in the positive way, and read that author very carefully so you can explain why other people LIKE the book as well as why you hate it.

Is that a metaphor? Why, yes it is.

Greater of Two Evils, Reprise

2009-08-31T22:09:00.000-07:00

Having posted a little something to show the high end of the good guy perspective in Caradoc, I thought I might drop this one down to show one end of the bad guy perspective... though the Kingmakers aren't as nasty as some.

Closing the heavy cover of the Book of Lies, Lord Endelcar took his seat at the wide, mirror-polished black table. There were nine seats; the one at the head of the table was empty.

“This Convocation has begun,” he announced after a sip of wine. “We have had time to consider our courses of action, given what information we have brought to each other. There are a few decisions we must now resolve.”

“Indeed,” said the Advocate in his mellifluous voice. The voice did not match the seamed, scarred and craggy face it slid out of, nor did it match his hard eyes, which were like black stones. “And I for one am anxious to begin our work in earnest this year.”

“Our work is always earnest,” replied the Pander smoothly, narrow chin resting on the slender knuckles of one hand. Her smile made her rebuke an gift, and the Advocate merely nodded in acceptance.

“Don't mince words,” said the Reeve, eyes sliding like razors over the Pander's bare shoulders.

“Indeed not,” broke in Lord Endelcar. “We have a good many choices to deliberate over, and the sooner we bring our counsel to the Monarch, the better. Shall we begin?”

As he began to lead them down the list, he silently admitted that he too shared the Advocate's feelings. With a Monarch in the council at last, Lord Endelcar felt like a young man again. The bleak coals of his hard-won wisdom were afire with the subtle knowledge that now, just as the Advocate said, their work could truly proceed.

As they voted to collapse the economy of the port city Dardantus, he considered that all of the other Kingmakers were feeling the same elation in some way, even if they did not openly show it. The Manciple's debaucheries last night had been extreme, even for her. Even the normally austere and reserved Sacristan had exhibited more pomp and circumstance than usual when they'd met earlier in the evening. Indeed, the decision to have the Convocation at the mercenary pleasure-city of Arn was just as much a chance to celebrate as it was a safe place for them to meet.

“Do we remove Caradoc Manzoran?”

“He is troublesome, but he does not directly oppose us,” murmured the Pander, two fingers on her cheek in thought. “He cannot reach us readily, he knows it.. and neither can we remove him easily.”

“Further, he provides a hub of political and financial influence that is useful to us in the long term,” added the Voltigeur as he regarded his wineglass.

“The council therefore says no.”

Marking yet another decision voted upon, Lord Endelcar saw the differences in this Convocation. They were all ready to push, to drive forward and see bounds of progress instead of the small, careful steps they were prone to. All of them were people of great influence and power, and none of them ever made foolish mistakes. But now, they felt aggressive.

Changes are coming, though Lord Endelcar with satisfaction.

The questions moved on, and the Kingmakers chose.

“The Canon of Doctrine in Yhelm is proving problematic. Do we bring another church investigation forward to distract her?”

The wild-eyed Imprecator sneers at the Sacristan's conservative opinion. The Sacristan is unmoved by the Imprecator's scorn, and his deadly quiet voice continues to levelly defend his view against the precise arguments of the Advocate.

“Betrani trade embargoes against the Purayu islands continue. Do we break them?”

The Pander sways the Advocate again with nothing but a glance, and the Reeve notices. He folds his deadly hands in envy, perhaps. The Pander smiles warmly at the Advocate for everyone else's benefit.

“The House of the Sun has taken a passive stance on their border conflicts with Jashapur; is it in our best interests to foment conflict between them again?”

Laughing with a mouth that is not even his, the Voltigeur comments about the Manciple's expensive tastes. She watches him with pale eyes, and wonders things he might be able to imagine. The Sacristan folds his arms, shuts his brooding eyes and considers.

Finally, as he finished tallying the last vote, Lord Endelcar looked at the empty chair where Tristan would be seated, and then panned his gaze around at the other Kingmakers.

“Lastly... as you know, Prince Beckhardt Naseran Winthelgrim informally abdicated to Lady Angharad, and yet rather than formally abdicate, he has sent a huge tribute to the ones who slew Hope and preserved his province. We know that he shows no signs of relinquishing, and we know that Lady Angharad feels that the province should be hers. So... who shall we have as ruler there?”

Random?

2009-08-28T09:23:00.001-07:00

Writers write, and I certainly have no shortage of things to write. While I'm attending to that shortage, I have a number of thoughts today that some of you may even find interesting.
I finished 'Twilight' a few days ago. After having let the book sink in a bit, I came to the conclusion that no, I did not particularly enjoy the book. I do stand by my previous opinion that it is an excellent depiction of a world seen through the eyes of an adolescent, and whether or not this was voluntarily done by the author makes little difference to me. That she has provided this view in a literary form is significant, and judging from the success of the book, she wrote it at the exact right time. It provides an extended metaphor for the uncomfortable process of self-knowledge and the advent of sexuality, even as much as the story glosses over both of these subjects (after all, Bella doesn't get where she is in the process, and few teens ever do). I can already see the literary essays on the hidden stories in 'Twilight', because they would be really easy to write, but I'll spare my audience here.

One of my commentators stated that I was being too kind to the author. Let me amend that. I downplayed my irritations with the book because everyone else seems interested in expressing their irritation with the book, and why be redundant? Further, I really do think that as a piece of literature, 'Twilight' is significant in this day and age. I think everyone should read it.

Once.

I am not enthusiastic about reading any further books in the series, and briefly, I am going to tell you why. Bella is annoying. She's not as loathsome as Thomas Covenant, say, but I'd love to put the two of them into the same room (and my money would be on Covenant). Her involuntarily placement as Center of the Universe takes on an almost hilarious aspect by the end of the book. Her supporting cast of characters end up coming off more as incompetents, sycophants and stalkers (roughly in that order of frequency). Let's face it: vampires in the world of 'Twilight' are dumb. I really don't care that they sparkle; they are so super-everything in every other sense, why not sparkle? And isn't it refreshing how their beauty is a disadvantage? (I guess). I'll give Meyer this; she makes vampires how she wants them to be. Unfortunately, her depiction of hundred-plus year old super-humans is distinctly lacking.

Anyway, when conflict in 'Twilight' extends beyond relationship issues between our desperately obsessive Edward and poor talented and beautiful Bella, the book suffers a lot. I'm not going to spoil the story for anyone who hasn't read it, but I'll leave it at this: it is a really predictable book, and the end will not surprise you.

Closing notes: The dialogue is sometimes painful. The story is trite. I found only one interesting character in the whole book, and he's second-shelf, two-dimensional like everyone else. Also, some people talk about how many times the word blood is used in 'Macbeth'; I will mention how many times people smirk, snicker and roll their eyes in 'Twilight'... because they do. All the time.

Well, that's it for 'Twilight'.

Also in the news, the characters in my DnD group apparently consider going to a remote dungeon location that has nothing to do with a huge overarching plot to be a VACATION. Can we say professional adventurers? I knew we could.

A few random other comments:

To all food manufacturers: STOP PUTTING SUGAR IN MY FOOD. Tomato sauce doesn't need sugar. Fruit juice, of all things, does not need sugar. I reiterate: STOP PUTTING SUGAR IN MY FOOD.

To all governmental structures in the United States: The purpose of having a government is to provide a framework for building the future. If you are an elected official, and are sincerely interested in the future of whatever place you happen to govern, STOP CUTTING MONEY FROM EDUCATION. Take the long view, people. Why are my teachers taking a 10 percent pay cut just to stay in the game when you aren't? Leadership isn't about accolades or personal gain. At its root, leadership is about sacrificing yourself for the whole. Put your money where your mouth is.

Regarding 'Twilight'

2009-08-24T13:06:00.000-07:00

Good writing is all about having the reader relate to your work, so that they can share in your experience. People will take a different experience away from the same work, depending on their respective point of view. If an author can create a book that provides an experience that a very large number of people can relate to, they are a successful author.

This holds true even if the writing isn't that great. A work of literature can be a beautiful creation full of colorful metaphor, word-play, dialogue and gorgeous grammatical construction, but this only means the writer was a very good writer. If readers can't find an accessible experience in the work, or something to relate to on a personal level, the writer isn't a good author.

The author of 'Twilight' is a good author.

I started reading 'Twilight' recently (yes, the sparkly vampire book). I haven't gotten very far, but it is already apparent to me why the book is so popular, and also why many people have a tendency to detest it.

I think a lot of the people who didn't like the book have forgotten what it feels like to be an adolescent (which is most adults). People have a tendency to polarize their experiences as teen-agers; they idealize it as a kind of golden age, or they look back and try to forget. Bella's point of view in 'Twilight' is quintessentially adolescent. She runs hot and cold. She's talented and beautiful but can't believe it. She views her parents as sad incompetents, and alternately tolerates or attempts to watch over them. Her stubborn nature is balanced out by a bottomless sense of melancholy. Her embarrassment at being paid attention to conflicts with her secret need to be desired and noticed.

In sum, she's a sixteen year old girl.

I think that people forget the story is told from her eyes alone. There's no other view in the story except that of an intelligent adolescent, and in my reading so far, it's a very accurately written view. Therefore, to people who find adolescents aggravating, Bella will be aggravating and whiny. J.K. Rowling did something similar with a very angry teen Harry Potter, but her books were not written in the first person. Therefore you never got to see the world through the distorted lens of angry teen Harry Potter; there was always a framework of omniscience explaining the truth. In 'Twilight', you are restricted entirely to Bella's view of what is happening. When reading the book, you should remind yourself of that fact.

Who, as an adolescent, hasn't dreamed of something horrible happening to them, just so people would notice and be awed? Who didn't dream about a perfect mate who you hated anyway? Who didn't suffer the sinking feeling that everyone was staring, that you were the odd one out, the one who was different? And of course, who managed to make it through adolescence without thinking at least once that the adults don't know everything, but you do... or you will. Adolescents thrive on melodrama, because melodrama is intensity; it is feeling, it is validation that they are something more than what they have been.

People complain about Bella being in an ideal dream world, and being an ideal character. I counter with the statement that of course she's an ideal character... in her own mind. Part of being adolescent is trying to believe yourself into who you want to really be, and that process can run so deep that most adults still carry around the facade they built for themselves in those days. Some of them never get out again. Bella's perceptions about people, how they react to her and how they talk should be considered twisted by her own perceptions of who she is and who they are. Note how often her insecurities bite at her.

I have a long way to go before I finish the book, and my opinions may change in the meantime. Of course, I haven't gotten to the part where she explains that vampires are sparkly. Even if I don't like the story itself, I believe that I will still come away from the book acknowledging that Stephanie Meyer is a good author. 'Twilight' is peppered with nice metaphors, but it isn't any profoundly beautiful work of literature. It is, however, a very close look at the process of becoming that an adolescent goes through, from the adolescent's point of view. And that is something that all of us should remember.

More later when I finish the book.

Thinking Epic

2009-08-18T21:23:00.000-07:00

Caradoc is a man my dnd group loves to hate, and hates to respect. Given that they are just touching the edges of his level of influence and priority, I thought I might post a little something from his point of view.

When people talked about heroes, they were talking about any one of those rare individuals who refused to be daunted. When people talked about the Archmage, they meant Caradoc. Dour chin resting on one knuckle, he peered at the world map in the war room. It was a mural, created in conjunction with an accomplished seer.

“Show me the armies,” he said, and tiny blots of ink pooled on the map.

“The House of the Sun is massing again,” said Lord Irmin.

“They only do that to remind Jashapur who has the larger army. But they won't move. Pharaoh is too cautious for an assault.” Caradoc scanned the map like a hawk, and then turned to the small group of sages, generals and scholars standing around the council table. “Someone's building an army in the south of Sarrgim. Find out who.”

“Yes, sir,” said one of the soldiers. He saluted briskly, and left immediately.

“Otherwise, looks like business as usual, except for whoever is hiding.” Caradoc dismissed the map blots with a wave, and focused his attention on his lieutenants. “Any other word from Ollamh?”
“Nothing new, sir,” said the broad-shouldered man with the embroidered sepia Academy robe. “They still have eyes on Avissar, looking for residual magic.”

“And watching the insane Prince, no doubt,” murmured a sardonic, greying general.

Caradoc gave the old man a pointed look. “We don't know if Beckhardt is actually insane. He's a good player; don't assume. Right, we've...”

The door opened, and Piers half stepped in. He was Caradoc's new chamberlain; young and efficient, mousy but with an exorbitant tailoring bill. “Apologies, my lord...”

“Someone here to see me?”

“Yes, my lord, and very insistent on it,” replied Piers. “The Balebane Company.”

There was a faint wash of bemusement in the room.

“Very well, we're about done here anyway,” Caradoc announced. “You all know what you should be working on. I want reports on the cult of the Eye and the whereabouts of that rogue binder by tomorrow.” He walked over to his desk, paused as people began to file out. “Lord Irmin, you're attending the masquerade in Purayu?”

“Yes, sir, received the invitation two weeks ago. Should I change my schedule?”

“No, just a reminder; I expect a new Dolnan spy there. Keep an eye out.”

Lord Irmin nodded, and left. Piers hovered by the door, patient, until Caradoc motioned for him to bring the visitors up.

At one time, Caradoc had wandered the world, gathering wealth and power and righting wrongs along the way. He'd been a fiercely moral man, firmly convinced that there were no reasons but greed or sloth to justify squandering one's talents. His morals had gotten worn down a bit as the years passed, and now he had far too many enemies to be an adventurer. He had nothing to prove, and no need for glory; people like the Balebane Company could have it all.

“Balebane Company, my lord,” announced Piers, opening the door again to admit four hard-eyed men and women.

Caradoc studied the four. They'd made an effort to come properly dressed; all wore finery appropriate to meeting the Archmage, though one looked ill at ease in it. He also knew he was not what they expected. Many magicians were scholars foremost, and used to easy living. Caradoc loved easy living, but he would never be soft; he was tall, trim and muscular. Though his hair was white and his face weathered, he was strong and fit. He also made it a point to dress well.

“I have a meeting in ten minutes,” he said. “What business do you have with me?”

“I am Caedwallon,” said one of the four, a lean and tough looking man with long black hair and a distinctly aquiline profile. “I'm the ...”

“I know who you are,” said Caradoc, studying the man without expression. Strong decision maker, but heavy insecurities. Obsessed with making a mark on the world. Lots of personal charisma, probably prone to self-indulgence. “And I know your group's reputation. What business do you have with me?”

The interruption stung a bit, but he saw that at least half the group was flattered he knew them. Of course I know you, thought Caradoc. I know all of the local independent contractors.

“We come to offer our aid to you,” said Caedwallon with a faint hint of irritation.

“Very well,” said Caradoc. He walked around his desk, shuffled through his papers just to make an impression and found a list he'd known the location of from the start. “There's a mine south and east of here, at the border of Maev province. It's an abandoned silver mine, and the local governor will give you any maps you need...this document here...” Caradoc signed and sealed an envelope. “... will see to that. Go to the mine. If there are green-robed fanatics there, find out what they are doing and come back here. Yes, they will likely be dangerous. You can do further investigations when you get there. Be wary of infiltrators in the town, but you can be sure of the governor.”

He handed the envelope to Caedwallon, who accepted it with a puzzled look.

“Ah... what is this about,” ventured the younger man.

Fixing Caedwallon with a falcon-like stare, Caradoc folded his arms. “If you want to aid me, I've just told you how. Off you go. If you need compensation, talk to my chamberlain. I assume you are competent. Any further questions you have are ones you can answer yourself.”

He could tell they wanted to ask anyway, but they eventually filed out. Caradoc shrugged, and started sorting through reports he'd received earlier in the day. There is never any shortage of would-be heroes, he thought. When Balebane Company goes and kills the local necromancer or the resident brute or saves some noble scion from being kidnapped, stories get told. Songs are sung. Everyone knows, and the Company gets to celebrate being heroes. When I do my work right, no one ever knows they were threatened or saved.

Peering critically at a report from the far north, he frowned.

And there is just never enough time, he thought. I'm overdue for a little celebration.

“Piers,” he called. “Send word to... Lady Aeronwyn, I'll be back in Yhelm to meet with the Academy next week.”

Epiloguing

2009-08-12T10:18:00.000-07:00

A little something for the old Kult group...

Dreaming came easier to Gideon than it once had, but there were still the unpleasant locked doors in his mind. They cramped his dreams, and sometimes an ugly smear of vision would creep out from under them to violently stain his sleep. Slapping paint across his new work, Gideon considered that he did the same thing to his canvases on a regular basis.

Pausing to sit down and stare at his canvas, Gideon picked up his green tea and had a sip. He was working on a portrait commission, something that trickled down from his obnoxious but effective agent, and it had a pleasant Francis Bacon-esque flavor. Knitting his brows together, considering his next steps, he was pleased with the progress so far, but this was not really what he wanted to paint.

Lara preferred it, certainly.

He knew she wouldn't outright forbid him to paint anything. She knew the bleeding could make him dizzy, but it would stop after a while, and it didn't actually open any wounds. So, she was patient, far more patient than he could ever be with himself, and she helped with the bandages.
The look at the corner of her eyes, though, made him uncomfortable. I don't understand why you do this to yourself, she was silently saying. I don't understand why you have to paint this.

Gideon got up again, a mote of frustration insisting on movement. It rankled at him sometimes that Lara was still bothered by the stigmata he suffered; after all they had been through, he thought she'd be a little more accepting. Stalking into the open kitchen, he poured himself more tea from the little clay pot that Lara's mentor Tomo had gifted them with.

“Please remember, even though she does not show it as you do, that Lara also has been deeply affected,” Tomo had told him, serene but quietly concerned. “Kenichiro is a poisoned bodhisattva, and she has been caught in his delusions. It will be very hard for you both; patience will save you.”

Patience had never been a virtue of Gideon's, but stubbornness was. Just as Lara struggled with Gideon's carefully controlled rage and obsession with painting that which made him literally bleed, he had to helplessly watch her wrestle with a wildly teetering pessimism and aggression. She never talked about all that happened with her when she was lost in Kenichiro's madness, but he expected that she couldn't remember a lot of it.

It was irrational, but he envied her about that sometimes.

Skirting his work area, Gideon went to the window and looked down at the city streets below. Rain was creeping down the glass, distorting the gray view, and he tried to let it distract him. Now that he'd begun, his mind was already spinning back towards a dream that brought blood out from his palms and his brow, a dream that he'd been unable to escape or purge.

A pueblo village, utterly empty. A sky with a merciless sun edging around dreadful storm clouds, and the young mestizo woman with her wild eyes and proud chin and long, long black hair tickling at her ankles. She has a rosary around her neck, she wears a pretty linen dress Gideon finds well suited for gathering flowers or sitting next to a slow cool river on a hot day. But there is no peace or mercy in her eyes, and her lips part to a crowd-scream of a voice, a woman's voice that breaks like thunder.

“THIS IS THE BLOOD OF THE LAMB.”

And then he must watch as her body is scourged, beaten, broken, violated, torn by a hundred silent, invisible assailants.

She stands there, and her eyes defy him. They promise him. They squeeze his heart until he has to wake up.

Lara knows better than to try and console him with words after waking from such a dream. She lets him know that she is all right, that he is with her, that he is not locked in a hot box in the Mexican village of a fanatical madwoman. She does that with a touch, and she is understanding of it.

But one day, he tried to paint the dream, and it was very difficult for him. Worse, it was difficult for her to look at it, even unfinished.

It is only fair, he thought bitterly. I don't like to think about Kenichiro either.

Sighing, he turned briskly away from the window and sat back down in front of the portraiture. Picking up his brush again, he started swiftly painting, locking away thoughts for another time. Mind set, Gideon knew he loved Lara, but he wished deeply that for once in his life, the past would leave him alone.

Part of him wondered if his painting would be as good, though.

Epilogue from the Other Side

2009-08-08T13:35:00.000-07:00

Still here. Wedding, two receptions on two sides of the country, a stint in Paris (ah, Paris), and a road trip as well as various bureaucratic ordeals have kept me very busy. In my last game session for DnD, the players came to the end of the Big Plot Arc, and became very famous people indeed. This got me thinking about gaming epilogues, of course, and I decided to show something from The Other Side.
Sometimes a victory is a two-edged sword.

Yesterday, Julian was inconsolable. He had wept blood, thrashed as if he wanted to destroy his own body against any surface he could find, and howled until his voice failed. Avar had to restrain him, binding the smaller man.

Today, Julian sagged with despair. There was no spark left in him, and he followed Avar meekly. Silent, Julian would not or could not speak, and Avar did not press him. There had been fits before, frothing and gnashing, but Julian had never been so broken. Avar did not rely on conversation, but as the two of them through thick, dank woods to the Manticore, he felt alone. Julian usually sang quietly or offered occasional words, but he walked silently, withdrawn.

Leoric had sent word that morning for them to come to the Manticore. Ever since their failed journey to the Alyach, finding it impassable, Leoric had stayed in the north of the Wound while the rest had gone back to attend to the growing army and preparing for the onslaught against the Green Veil knights.

But yesterday, Fidelity suddenly withdrew, leaving his cult confused and dismayed. Julian and the other Wormkeepers all became howling wrecks. Something had changed, and Avar expected that Leoric would have an answer.

When he crested the dead trees of the Manticore, he emerged to see Leoric standing at the edge of the Manticore's 'head', the slight overhang that looked down at the Wound. Nearby, Tancred stood, leaning heavily on a gnarled club, and a scabrous ghoul of large size crouched next to Leoric.

Isabeau, wearing her ghoul, Avar thought. As he and Julian moved to join the three, Leoric turned slightly.

“I am glad we didn't lose Julian. Many of the Wormkeepers died yesterday.”

“Yes,” said Avar. “And Fidelity left. What has happened?”

“The impossible,” said Tancred bleakly, but Leoric's glance killed anything else Tancred might have said.

Instead, Leoric pointed north, and Avar could see a whirlwind of harpies, this time swirling over the constant thick smog of the deep Wound.

He furrowed his brow. “I thought they did that once a year.”

“Watch,” said Leoric. “What has happened was not what we ever expected, but I have seen the runes, and I understand now. The harpies are waiting, just as we are.”

Avar decided not to ask, and as he expected, part of the answer occurred shortly. A great shadow crossed over them, sweeping a horrible sour odor through the wind, and he looked up to see a tremendous harpy, a giant around which a vast cloud of flies buzzed. Other harpies followed in her wake, and he could feel the uncomfortable tickling at the back of his mind that indicated she was a Disciple.

“Beauty,” murmured Tancred with awe.

The giant harpy glided and dipped through the air, joining the huge vortex of her countless children, and then her devastating voice echoed through the Wound. It swept up the voices of her children, building a storm of angry wordless song that built steadily.

A sharp scuffing sound pulled Avar's attention away, and he glanced back at Julian, who had crumpled himself into a little weeping ball. Isabeau's ghoul also glanced at Julian, and took a slight step towards him.

“Oh no,” murmured Julian. “No, no. No.”

The steady tide of the harpy song built and then broke into a frightful harmonic screaming, equal parts anguish and rage and triumph. Avar felt, rather than saw, creatures fleeing from the Wound. Somehow he knew that even the most diseased and corrupted animals were running away. Tancred shifted uncomfortably, and for the first time Avar saw fear on his weathered face.

This time the question would not be restrained. “What is happening,” he said softly.

“Watch. Watch for the stirring of His corpse,” said Leoric.

Like dust billowing out from the collapse of a cave, the smog at the deepest end of the Wound suddenly burgeoned out, a foul greasy thunderhead of thick vapor. It rolled over the edges of the Wound, seeped in and around the trees and boiled over the hills. The brunt of it spilled through the deep canyon of the Wound, obscuring even the shallow areas with ochre-green smog. Avar saw a good many harpies plummet from the sky, dead.

There was a moment of profound silence, and then the earth groaned. A tremor went through the ground, a jolt of anguish.

“The Alyach is open,” said Leoric with satisfaction. “The Disciples all gathered at the Tree, because Hope was slain. Hope is dead.”

Avar tilted his head, and was not at all surprised that even the ghoul looked discomfited.

Revenge of the Tedium

2009-06-18T11:00:00.000-07:00

At the choke point just before finals, I am also looking at a trip to France at the end of next week, and that will be the break before life slows down rather considerably. It is amazing how time consuming wedding planning is, and how much it occupies your brain even when you aren't thinking about it. Combine this with two large, intensive school projects, and the creative brain finds itself with cramps.

Speaking of cramps, I finally dragged myself through 'The Harlequin', by Laurell K. Hamilton. I believe it will be the last book by that author I read unless someone offers me a remarkably positive review of another book. Part of my motivation in reading through this series was to mark the progression of a story which has proven to be tremendously popular to fans of the modern-supernatural genre. I wanted to read through it to see how situations and characters panned out, and in my own slightly vindictive way, mark what I feel I could have done better so I can go off and do better in some work of my own.

I'll say it again. The early Anita Blake books were not bad. They weren't awesome, in my opinion, but Hamilton examined lots of little tidbits about how the world would be different if the supernatural were real and everyone knew it. There was a lot of flavor there, and a potentially wonderful contrast between Blake and the 'monsters' she was hunting. The last book that I actually enjoyed reading was 'Blue Moon', largely for the presence of a well-written villain whose impact on the story is pervasive throughout the book. But the villain doesn't even make a personal appearance until the book is well underway, and in fact, even though his name comes up, he's just a random name for much of the story. I liked that.

My problem with the later books was that they are drowned in sexually driven melodrama, completely obscuring and later replacing investigative storylines peppered with curious alternate history facets. There is an attempt to make this melodrama supernatural by tying all sorts of metaphysics to sexual/emotional activity, but the melodrama remains mundane. As the books progress and the main characters become increasingly dysfunctional as well as powerful, the plots became random monster of the week issues. These plots are sometimes twined with the usual shopping list of difficulties regarding who is sleeping with whom and why, and let me assure you that this drama is not nearly as interesting as it could be.

I can understand the emphasis on sex. Sex sells, and everyone knows it. Everyone can readily see that human beings are voyeurs. We love to peer at the complications in other people's relationships and talk about them. It is appealing to watch extreme emotions get batted back and forth. So, in this regard, I can see why these later Anita Blake books are popular.
My problem with the story is that the characters have become caricatures, and I have therefore ceased to care about them. They are little paper cut outs with names and a select wardrobe of emotional issues and/or power sets. They really haven't changed much at all for several books, and if they do change it is usually to be decidedly for or against Anita, who gains some new special ability or power each book. Unfortunately, these new powers don't make Anita any more interesting to me.

My disgruntlements with the story aside, I'll call this good exercise. People in the future may not enjoy the books that I write. People may pick over them as I have just done with Hamilton's work. My purpose in reading and rereading here is to discover those pieces of writing I do not want to find in my own, and to learn more about why I like or dislike... and hopefully minimize any dislike for my general audience.

Of course, my love of surrealism is probably going to make certain that my chosen audience will never be general.

Dreams of Corant 3

2009-06-12T09:04:00.001-07:00

Apologies for such a delay. I was off getting married this past weekend, and that has a tendency to take up a lot of time. The wedding was about as perfect as a wedding can be, and I thought the Edward Gorey theme worked very well indeed. Pictures on the way later.

For now, we're finishing up the story of Corant.

When the party met Corant, they were sneaking around a distant village where the people had been slain and piled up like garbage. A few rather nervous armed men were going through some of the houses, taking anything useful as supplies. When the group did some covert investigating, they noticed the signs of some horrible damage done to a few of the bodies, as if they'd been tortured by someone with a very bad temper.

A bit of listening revealed that the men worked for someone named Lun, who they were more than a little spooked by. Further sneaking revealed one of the houses had been set up as living space; a pot of something pungent was bubbling over the fire, and inside a rail-thin woman hard at work bandaging another woman. The other woman looked unconscious, laying on a table, and her arms and legs were stumps, currently wrapped in fresh bandages.

Concluding that some heinous business was going on, the party bushwhacked the enemy. They steamrolled the mercenaries, and when the thin woman came running out, they put the hurt on her too. In fact, Lun gets taken down quickly.

That was when the sobbing, laughing swarms of black birds came boiling out of Lun's house. The door burst, and a limbless woman came floating out towards the party.

Corant by ~Galindorf on deviant ART

They managed to put Corant down, but they were badly shaken by the experience. They thought she had been some innocent made into a floating battery for evil magic, and thought to purify and consecrate her body the following day, at dawn. But in the night, they discovered that it was not easy to kill Corant. She woke up and attacked them again, resulting in the death of one of the party.

Mearowyn was later resurrected by the priests of Dumuzi, who sacrificed one of their own to balance out the debt to the underworld, but she found that even after Corant's final death that there was a splinter of Corant left in her. The aftermath of Corant's 'sharing' slowly made Corant's story apparent.

By the time the group met Corant, Corant was fully immersed in the dark solipsisms of Shepherd philosophy. She was a library of collected secrets, which provided her the means to impose her view of the world on the world around her and inflict her emotions and experiences on others. Lun by that point was insane, but utterly loyal to her older sister, attempting to learn from Corant as best as she could.

The Credo that the Shepherd had given Corant still hung around her neck, encased in a small metal book, and the party took it with them. It was the subject of much speculation. I used an excerpt from the works of Aleister Crowley (Liber V vel Reguli) as a basis for this riddle, modifying the words to point the Credo further inward and making it more a vicious cycle than a tenet for exploration. Corant's Credo was thus:

I am Omniscient, for naught exists for me unless I Know it. I am Omnipotent, for naught occurs save by my Comprehension, my soul's expression through my Will to be, to do, to suffer the symbols of itself. I am Omnipresent, for naught exists where I am not, who fashioned Purity as a condition of my consciousness of myself, who am the center of all, and my circumference the frame of my own wisdom.
I am the All, for all that exists for me is a necessary expression in thought of some tendency of my nature, and all my thoughts are only the letters of my Name.
I am the One, for all that I am is not the absolute All, and all my all is mine and never another's; mine, knowing there are others like myself in expression and illusion, but unlike in essence and truth.
I am the None, for all that I am is the perfect image of the imperfect; each partial phantom must perish in the vision of itself, each form fulfill itself by devouring its equated sins, and satisfying its need to be the Absolute by attainment of annihilation.

One disturbing effect of all this was Corant's bottomless vitality. The party could not figure out why she kept reviving after taking tremendous physical punishment. Later, it was revealed that Corant had Lun cut off Corant's limbs, because Corant didn't want to touch anything (the world was filthy and corrupt, you see), and in fact, the process of keeping her limbs stumps was an ongoing process, as Corant's vindictive body kept trying to grow them back. The party found the steaming pot in the village hut to contain a poultice made of liblit flower, which if ingested puts the mind in a fugue state where one cannot lie.

It turned out that liblit flower was what could kill Corant, and a single knife coated in the juice of the little purple blossom put an end to Corant. As Mearowyn said afterwards, “She couldn't bear to face the truth.”

And that was true.

Dreams of Corant 2

2009-05-30T17:27:00.000-07:00

The concluding vision of Corant's past.

You sit and comb out your hair. It is almost to your ankles these days, long and luxuriant and glossy, and it is one of the pleasures of your life. You enjoy running fingers through it, combing it out, feeling the weight of it swing back and forth. Usually, you'd pin it up later and take a long walk.

But today will be different.

Only an hour ago, Tobin had an argument with you. This wasn't surprising, because you two often argued. It was always about small things, small things that you didn't even notice but he always did. These little considerations of comment or glance or word just weren't very important to you, but for him, every little thing forgotten was something to carry as a grudge.

For a while, you just ignored it. Tobin is kind enough, but he could never understand you, or what you know, and you were too busy dreaming. The secrets in you twine around your belly and make you warm at night, and the mysteries you ponder are ones that Tobin would never be able to grasp with his weak-fingered mind. You did love that he tried so hard to please you, as if he were apologizing for the marriage, but you didn't love him. So you were both lonely in your own way, and that was just how it was. You knew he suspected a lover, but he would never know the truth. You tried to be kind, but after a while, his touch was something you tolerated.

He called you cold, so you were. He wept, so you comforted him. You were still a woman, however apart you felt, and so you tried to be good, but Tobin's resentment stained any chance of friendship. So you resented the distance too, and consoled yourself with trying to understand the credo your teacher had left.

But lately it had been harder. There had been no children from Tobin's impassioned fumbling, and he really wanted children. You knew it was your duty, but you were thankful there weren't any.

Tobin was a good man, yes, but the thought of bearing his children bothered you.

You were a little bothered about something else too. Did your teacher make sure there would be no children?

It made you worry about your sister, too, because the things you shared with her seemed to weigh heavy on her. They were difficult for her to bear, perhaps. She could not explain the dull ache in her eyes, and that makes you sad. You thought Lun would join you in understanding, but she couldn't understand.

Despite it all, you love your sister, even though she also makes you feel alone. At least you know she loves you back.

But now, combing your hair out, you have to make a decision.

Tobin got angry. He'd grabbed hold of you when you tried to turn away, and he'd never laid a hand on you before, not like this. You finally you decided to tell him what you thought. All the words you'd kept to yourself about him being insecure and weak and controlling and foolish and stupid; you dusted the edges off and you were ready to send them flying, however insincere some of them were except in anger.

But with the first whisper of breath through your lips, a thread slipped from you, a tugging that you felt slip out of your heart like a needle coming out of your skin, and it went through him
Blood covered the wall, and he died, just like that.

You stood there, numb with fear but suddenly elated.

This is what your teacher had meant about communication.

That is when you started to really understand what hid in the credo.

Tobin, you tell yourself, was a good man.

You are sorry for this, you tell yourself. You are sorry, but the hollow in your stomach makes you understand that this one accidental event has killed the Corant who played along the river bank, the pretty Corant who danced in the circle at the coming of spring, and the Corant who was the pride of her parents. You can't stay here anymore.

I am sorry, you tell yourself through Tobin's memory. I am sorry I could not be a good wife to you, and I am sorry that you died. I did not mean to kill you, but I cannot weep for you, because my love is not for you.

With a sigh, you look at yourself in the mirror, studying your proud beauty, and your long dark hair flowing around you like a waterfall at night. Then you take up the sharp knife, and you hack it short. You will leave the hair behind with Tobin's staring body, and you and your sister will leave.

But first, you will wash. You feel dirty.

Dreams of Corant

2009-05-28T12:10:00.001-07:00

More dream-experiences of Corant's life that Mearowyn got to enjoy after being horribly hurt by Corant's form of expression.

Secrets

He told you, from the beginning, that you could not share what you knew.

“I trust you,” he said, the first night. “Keep what I tell you safe, and keep me safe.”

Each dark of the moon, you'd go out and meet him, and all night, he'd speak to you in his low, rich voice, telling you tales and poetry older than the White Tower at Kaylan. Sometimes he'd even show you dreams made real, sifting out of the shadows that always boiled around him. He wasn't like other teachers at all; he'd ask about your thoughts, and you lived for the moments when you surprised him with an observation or a comment. It would make him smile, and he might even touch your hand, stealing your breath away.

It was too much joy to bear, and when Lun got curious, you told her. She didn't believe you, so you told her to come with you, to hide and wait.

And so you wait, near the river, in the darkness, and you keep waiting, but he is not there. Your hands start to get numb, and you don't want to sit down. The time passes by like water slowly freezing solid, and you know you've started shuffling fitfully, but you can't help it. When Lun finally gets tired of the 'game' and leaves, you stay, hoping, pleading inside, please, please I won't do this again, just come back, please, I'm sorry.

It is late when he comes out, and suddenly you feel like a stupid little girl, thinking that you could fool him. He stands there and looks at you, unreadable like he usually is, and your shiver isn't just from the cold.

“I'm so sorry,” you say, barely, but he hears you.

“Corant,” he says, making paradise out of your name. “I trusted you.”

And that's when you can't help it, and burst into tears. This only makes it worse. You feel stupid and ugly when you cry, and you wanted everything to be perfect.

“It's all right,” he says, then, and you look at him. He does not say it like your parents do when you do something wrong. And then suddenly he's there and his arms and his shadows and his cloak all wrap around you like snow gone warm, and you start crying again as his perfect hand brushes against your hair, but now it is because you've always wanted him to do this and why why why did it have to be because you did something wrong?

“It's all right,” he whispers, steam from a warm teapot. “When you know enough, you can teach Lun and share with her. Until then, this was just a game. You can tell her that. Go home now, and I will be waiting for you next time.”

And then he's gone again, with only a memory of his cloud of darkness around you, and the faint, burning-wood smell he left behind.

Fulcrum

Your parents want you to marry, but what do you care? Tobin is a good enough man, sweet, even, but you don't really notice him. You are too full of your stories and studies, and everyone wonders at your knowledge and skill these days. Eighteen now, and strong, and beautiful.

Over the years, you've made a little place for yourself where you meet your teacher, a camp site across the river. No one ever finds it; you know it has something to do with Him, but that's all you need to know.

He keeps it safe for you.

So, you sit and comb out your long, dark hair, wrapped in the blanket you wove last month to wait for him. A small fire burns nearby. It reminds you of him, the fire. It isn't that he is warm, but he makes you feel secure. He is strong, and his power can destroy, but it purifies; fire makes all things clean again, burns away impurities.

It also reminds you of him because of the baths, the long, scorching hot baths you take to wipe away all the sweat and dust of a long day. Resting there, lazy and immersed, it is easy to think of him as warm, enveloping. He's never held you like he did the one night, but he's touched you.

Your hands remember every moment of it.

And then, he arrives, the fire going eerie and blue for a moment, and you look up from braiding your hair. He emerges like a shadow lengthening, and there is the blazing white affection for you in his luminous eyes.

“Corant,” he says, like he always does, and you smile and get up to curtsy as he taught you. And then you both sit, and there are lessons. Lately it has been more and more about the power in experience, and the profound understanding that can change one's outlook or health or even the soul. He discusses quietly how pieces of disparate knowledge can be joined by a single thought, and this is often how magic works; the creation of a complete pattern where all the power can flow cleanly. And then he shocks you.

“You are ready,” he says softly, and the fire stutters. “Your thoughts and your will are trained, and waiting for wisdom that will grant you great power.” One of his dark, wrapped hands extends and gives you a folded piece of vellum.

“This is a credo for you. Live by it. Learn to understand it. Comprehend the secrets in the words. Finish the pattern, Corant, and then I will come back to you.”

Then your heart stops. “You are leaving,” you say. You've long since been able to speak with him openly. “Why are you leaving me?”

“Because the student must learn on their own. You can teach Lun what you know, now. Take her with you. There are so many keys to understanding this, and you sometimes you must travel to find them. I will only hinder your learning if I stay.”

But I love you, you want to say, and yet your tongue refuses. It isn't the right time. Instead, your mouth opens, and some resigned part of you says, “How long must I wait?”

“Until you have lived the credo, Corant. When you complete that pattern, I will come to you, and we will be together again. I know you will succeed in this.”

You take the paper, not looking, and you nod fiercely to belay the tears. “I will, I promise.”

Then he stands up, and offers a hand, which you take, readily, and then he pulls you in, easy as the wind nudges a leaf, and before you know it, your head is tilting up and your lips part and he kisses you, he drains the breath out of you with his cool mouth and threads of fire slip through your muscles and knot in your stomach. You know you make a sound, but you don't remember it, and then he's gone again, gone into the darkness where you know you can't follow.

But one day you will. You hold the paper in one hand and you swear one day you will.

A Few Brief Words

2009-05-26T08:21:00.000-07:00

Between class, wedding planning and miscellaneous intrusions of that thing called life, my brain has been a little short on words lately. This isn't to say the brain is short on ideas, of course; it cranks out concepts and characters and potential plots at alarming speed. This makes me frustration incarnate at times; it is like having a crowd of new people crammed in my skull, all clamoring for development, recognition and a voice. Above all they want that voice.

They want to live long enough to make their name mean something.

Sometimes I think that this is one reason I am a gamer. Gaming is like a quick solution to the mob of unborn characters. Need a new face in the game setting? Easy. The demand for expression is met, however briefly, and my players get to see yet another uncannily human NPC. Or uncannily inhuman, I guess.

Given all the travel and mess in the next few weeks, I imagine updates here might be a bit thin. So, for the next few posts, I'm going to share a few things I've already written rather than my usual practice of writing direct-to-blog. For starters, I'm going to post some material that is connected to my previous mention of the Shepherds, and specifically referring to an NPC who had a tremendous impact on my DnD group, both in and out of character. In fact, I think Corant had the greatest impact on the party out of any NPC.

Corant was an introduction to the Shepherds. She was an example of someone who had been seeded with a fragment of knowledge, and was transformed by letting it grow through her. By the time the players met her, she was horrific, but she'd started as a normal, intelligent young woman. Corant killed by communicating, and one of the party got dropped by her 'conversation'. As a result, that party member was stained by what Corant had known and experienced, and later had these vision/dreams, reliving small moments of Corant's life.

This was certainly one reason Corant affected my group so much, but I believe there was something more to it. The evil of the Shepherds, when expressed through others, comes out as a lonely, desperate creature. It is a despairing, empty kind of evil, a gnawing and mournful thing. This has the effect of generating sympathy as much as loathing or hatred, and this is one reason why the work of the Shepherds is so dangerous. As a patron of the group once said, 'The Shepherds never force anyone to do anything. They only offer.'

Corant accepted that offer, and here is the first part of that story.

Prospectus

To the north, there are the Nightsigh mountains, and you've always loved watching them, the fog that broke over their toothy crowns every evening. You imagined them as giant emperors and empresses, long ago turned to stone by their mighty patience, facing away from the bleak and terrible land everyone knows lays beyond them. The elves would come and tell tales, but never tales of what was beyond the Nightsigh. 'Sad and horrible,' they said, but nothing more.

But you would walk along the river, with the sun at your back, and warmth in your step. Swift runner, sharp-eyed, you could outwit and outrun most of the boys, and today, it makes you smile to think of them wanting to chase you. Lun was always so jealous of you, and you thought it was funny. You've always been the pretty one, with your long, dark hair and bright eyes, and besides, you're oldest, so that means you get courted first. You have just reached your fifteenth year, so it will start soon!

But mother also says ladies don't play about like you do, and you do it anyway, running down to the river to fish or watch the birds or climb trees. Sometimes your hair gets tangled up or you come home dirty, but mother always forgives you because you sing so beautifully, and you know all the old poems and your calligraphy is perfect. Today, it is catching salamanders, ankle-deep in the wide, muttering river, dreaming about the future. You've always wanted a horse, but home is too rocky and uneven for real riding. Tara's son said so; he'd been south, to Wevnir, and open ground. Perhaps when you do get married, there will be horses... but you won't be like other ladies. You'll ride where you wish, forever!

That's when you notice that someone is watching you from the other side of the river, and you look up, startled, because no one lives there.

That is when you see him

(it)

standing there in the shadows, with shadows boiling around him and a streak of darkness held in his

(its)

hands like a shepherd's crook, and he looks at you with blazing white eyes, the most dreadful and beautiful thing you have ever dreamed of, and suddenly you don't want your hair to be so tangled and your hands are all muddy and your feet dirty, and he just looks at you and then he smiles and your heart flutters like a butterfly you caught in between your hands once. And then it flies free, because he speaks to you, in a voice just like the fog breaking over the Nightsigh.

“I've been waiting a long time to find you.”

Adventure Seed

2009-05-21T09:24:00.000-07:00

Some additional information for my players, on a person who has been in the background for a long time...

The Nakibs of Jundo Anha serve two primary purposes. They are wise women and men who offer counsel and a sharp eye to the rulers of their people. They are also mystics who study and watch over the swamp-riddled verdant land, and gather threads of power from the earth. Nakibs (or Nakibas) do consider themselves custodians and wardens of the natural world, but there is nothing rustic about them. They are as clinical as they are reverent about increasing their understanding of the world, often cultivating libraries as well as greenhouses, and carefully studying the interlaced balance of animal and plant.

Most Nakibs begin as scholars, members of the aristocracy, and as they advance in understanding and skill, they are usually assigned regions of land to watch over. Most find some individual facet of nature to focus on, and they often share information with one another.
A handful of Nakibs have achieved extraordinary skill in their craft, and gather no little fame. Many of these Nakibs still attend the plutocratic court of Jundo Anha, but a few have wandered far from home to study and understand other parts of the world.

Nakiba Hafsah al'Kabir was one of these. Daughter of a merchant who traded in art, rare flowers and books, Hafsah had access to a high level of education and sophistication. Her family did not have a Nakib, but her father did keep a greenhouse, and she showed an aptitude for horticulture early on. Originally, her father had hoped she would become a Hakima, a truth-sayer and magician, but Hafsah lacked the subtle wit and unrelenting self-awareness for that lofty position. However, her exhaustive knowledge of local plants and animals attracted the attention of another Nakib, who appealed to her father to allow her the Seven Tests of Empathy. Hafsah passed them easily, showing the proper sensitivity, perception and insight to weave the threads of a Nakiba.

After her induction, she rose quickly in skill, and was named Nakiba within a year's time. Her apprenticeship to a Nakib was cut short with the sudden death of her father, who died in a shipwreck while en route to the port of New Ombos. Being eldest in the family, Hafsah had to make decisions about the family business. Wealth is extremely important for status in Jundo Anha, and Hafsah preferred to maintain high standing above and beyond the quiet recognition as Nakiba. She spent a few years acquainting herself fully with all the trade routes her father used, branching out the business and doing some exploration of her own. After securing and refining her family business, Hafsah returned to Jundo Anha and resumed her studies as a Nakiba.
Her social status and considerable talent won her the plot of Andira Laa, a particularly humid pit of old swamp, which Hafsah spent a couple of years overseeing. The richness of life in such a fertile but hostile environment was fascinating to her, and she experimented heavily with alchemy using processes and materials from Andira Laa. Some of her experiments won considerable accord from her Nakib peers, but Hafsah would be known for transplanting flowers from other places.

Specifically, during her travels Hafsah had been exposed to the rare and peculiar flora of the Shemshir basin. Flowers and plants grow there which will not grow anywhere else, due to some elusive quality of the earth or the weird sorcery of the Par'hu who live there. Hafsah became aware of plants there which could revive the recently dead, allow sight into the future, and create other wonders. She experimented with crossbreeding and grafting in the Andira Laa, seeing if these plants could fit into ecosystem there, but only had limited success.

The bizarre and potent drugs from Shemshir also caught Hafsah's attention, and she began to make use of some of them recreationally. But she also found one in particular which increased her sensitivity and awareness to the plants she was working with. She could hear their growth like a form of soft music. This subtle level of perception allowed her to make leaps and bounds of progress in mystical horticulture, and by the time she started to study what little was known about Par'hu garden sorcery, the other Nakibs came to her with concerns about her extensive use of Shemshir drugs. They were grudgingly surprised by what she'd done with the Andira Laa, but also pointed out that she'd broken several rules about transplanting species.

Choosing to withdraw honorably, Hafsah publicly apologized for her failings, gathered up her merchant business, and relocated to Korai, where lack of strictures on imports and exports caused her wealth to increase. She began to heavily invest in the small but potent market for Shemshir plants and products, and quickly became known as a seller for them. Her experimentation continued, and eventually she became fascinated with the ability of certain Shemshir plants to overcome or transform the effects of death, as well as those which behaved more like animals.

Eventually, Hafsah's studies branched further into arcane practices, looking at the patterns of necromancy and the concept of ecology created in conditions where necromantic forces were prominent. Her erudition and magical skill grew, as did her wealth, as did her level of experimentation. Her original affinity for swamps did not fade, and she continued to study the fecundity of an environment that was so full of death. Much of her experimentation at this point was performed on herself, or under tightly controlled conditions. She did not introduce her work to any natural environment at that time, and traveled a fair amount to collect books, materials and information to expand her work.

Hafsah developed a reputation as a remarkable apothecary, a talented necromancer and a skilled herbalist and horticulturist, as well as a clever and influential merchant. In the recent days of her career, she has grown increasingly reclusive, and purchased a large swath of forbidding sub-tropical swamp in the Purayu islands, presumably as a home. Particularly recent findings are a bit troubling, however; indications show that she had been doing extensive work with the frightening Shemshir ochre tilia, a beautifully colored but rather mangy clinging plant whose pollen puts animals into a deep hypnotic state...which the plant uses to slowly consume them.

What is happening on Hafsah's island is still a mystery, but many of the local populations have suddenly ceased contact with neighboring islands.

Warning! Warning!

2009-05-15T18:31:00.001-07:00

We're experiencing some comment issues here again. I blame the overwhelmingly erudite essays of Ryan for shocking the commenting feature into insensibility.

Working on the issue now...

Inherently Evil

2009-05-13T12:49:00.000-07:00

We have had some great comments on recent posts... inspired by Elf Rage. This post is a bit late but I think some people will find it very interesting reading.

It is important to note that in a fantasy setting, just like science fiction, you are dealing with the concept of beings who simply do not think or feel the way humans do. They don't perceive the world the same way, either. Being human ourselves, we have to use the human perception as a baseline for these depictions, but it is important to understand that an entirely different species might make decisions on an entirely different set of thoughts, rationales and feelings. and this is rather more absolute than merely having an opinion. Evil implies motive, and if something cannot help but be what it is, how evil is it really? This is one reason why I don't think the presence of absolute evil makes things suddenly black and white. Absolute evil does not negate moral shades of gray.

I will also mention that I don't believe that something born inherently evil is automatically Absolute evil. Absolute evil is reserved for those supernatural things such as demons, who are removed entirely from the constraints of natural law. In my mind, something like a demon might be able to make sense, but ultimately, their way of thinking would be almost entirely incomprehensible to a mortal creature.

Of course, right from the start, you have a problem with the terminology. What does inherently evil even mean? Considering how out of control 'what if my paladin...' threads get in RPG forums, it is pretty easy to see how differently people view good and evil (my favorite one-liner is from a friend of mine: 'if you have to explain why it isn't evil, it's probably evil'). Instead of philosophizing, I'm going to use some examples of three intelligent races from my own campaign which are commonly regarded from the human standpoint as 'evil'.

Goblins are widely considered a dangerous nuisance. They are not very bright, breed very quickly, and can be extremely tenacious. They are careless with resources, but are capable of living in places humans won't even go near. Goblins have only one real sense of morality, and that is the survival of their own kind. The fae blood in their veins has given them a degree of creativity, whimsy and fascination, but the goblin view of beauty is a bit skewed, and they find the extreme of creatures in shock or pain oddly compelling; it is like one step up from the human tendency to stare at a car wreck. Part of this is how they were bred; goblins were made to be expendable soldiers, meant to fight and die en masse for their ogre autarch masters (the Gavarrhan).

Goblins left on their own don't want to fight wars, but there is a constant danger implicit to a goblin population. Bred to obey, goblins are compelled to follow orders from hobgoblins or ogres, and will do so even if it kills them. Goblins fear their masters for this reason, often actively avoiding contact with ogres or hobgoblins, but they literally cannot comprehend direct disobedience to either. They can coexist with humans fairly well if coached, and are quite capable of emotions like love or compassion. The irrevocable splinter of obedience to the Gavarrhan is troublesome enough, however, and there is a lot of prejudice towards goblins. Goblins, not understanding prejudice as a concept, attack would-be attackers furiously in order to protect their own, and have no compunctions about resorting to torture or atrocity to scare other races out of their territory.

The pheesu are a rather different case. Like goblins, they were manipulated into becoming a race of their own, but in this case the pheesu were merely uplifted to sapience from their original animalistic state, and left to develop on their own. Originally pack-hunting reptilians, the pheesu developed a kind of 'over-pack' hierarchy that provided a foundation for a large society, bolstered by an acknowledgment of racial identity. But the old tenets of predator-prey relationships and territorial rights were hard-wired in the pheesu psyche. As much as the pheesu became capable of rationalizing or comprehending, their instincts were in them from birth. Their initial conquest was merely for more territory as their race grew, but they were not interested in subjugating other races for any other reason than to use them as cattle. The pheesu were indifferent to the philosophy, art or science of prey animals. They would toss human captives to their hatchlings so that their hatchlings could fight over the food, giving their young practice at killing as well as weeding out the weak.

Pheesu were ferociously protective of their children, but they did not make allowances for runts of the nest. The strong live, the weak die. Killing was just part of being a pheesu; the imperative of predation would overwhelm them if ignored for too long, and the average pheesu would have to kill an animal once a week or so. This was not regarded as a hindrance to them. It was just part of being pheesu. Likewise, physical confrontations between packs were an accepted occurrence. Like many animals, they had behavior allowing for minimal harm of their species in a confrontation, and that became a ritualized but nonetheless brutal act of resolution. They had no empathy for prey races, such as humans. A pheesu was not being cruel when it started eating a human alive. It would not have thought to spare the human the pain, because the human was merely not important. At no point did the pheesu ever ask whether or not they were doing something wrong. It would have been exceedingly difficult for them to even understand the notion that it would be wrong from another point of view.The pheesu only respected or communicated with those creatures that were individually tougher than a pheesu, or for some reason did not set off their territorial instinct.

The Shepherds, descendents of the Alfar who studied human symbols of corruption, are all sages and scholars. They seek out forbidden secrets and keep many of the same, occasionally letting one or half of one slip to watch as the disease of knowledge spreads through the world. They study corruption in all forms; body, mind and soul. They examine the countless ways corruption might manifest and grow as well as how it is stopped or dealt with. Shepherds watch the process of secrets growing into different secrets, and collect all manner of lore that is regarded as repugnant, grotesque, frightful or blasphemous. The malice of a Shepherd is incredibly subtle and far-reaching, and thus to the common mind, they do not seem nearly as cruel as they actually are. The act of manipulating other beings is so ingrained to a Shepherd that it is instinctive. They are capable of compassion, but it is often for the purpose of building trust so that they can violate that trust in the future. Though the horrors they practice on others (and sometimes themselves) do further their constant study, Shepherds feel contentment in doing these things, and regard it as quite healthy and normal.

All Shepherds consider themselves part of a family. All Shepherds follow a common goal, which is so integral to who and what they are that it is an intimate bond between them. In a sense, one can consider all Shepherds to be in love with one another. In their view, no one else can see the depths that a Shepherd has descended to, and no other race can possibly understand how far a Shepherd can go. To a Shepherd, the world is a strange place, for it does not mirror the nightmare life that they are content with nor the twisted, selfish place they see the world as. Expressions of love between Shepherds border on atrocity in the eyes of other beings, and the compassion they show to non-Shepherds is pain at best.

So, which of these is inherently evil? Which of these is evil at all? How much black and white morality do you see here? Could any of them be potentially allies or heroes? What about antiheroes?

Elf Rage 2

2009-05-05T15:58:00.000-07:00

The drow, or dark elves, are a creature straight from the Dungeons and Dragons universe, and they have a long and colorful history despite their monochromatic appearance. They originally started as one of the most frightening opponents in the RPG, portrayed as ancient, decadent and amoral creatures who have a burning hatred and contempt of other races, especially their elven relations. The original descriptions of what the drow were like pointed at a vicious and depraved culture that was nonetheless highly educated and sophisticated. There were hints of the wonderfully inhuman Melniboneans from the Michael Moorcock Elric saga.

When the Forgotten Realms setting came out, things changed. The popularity of Forgotten Realms brought out a very different kind of drow elf, one which I abhor to this day. The fickle decadence was replaced by an adolescent portrait of cut-throat politics and pretentious power struggles. The alien behavior of the drow was lost, and they became like other elves; pointy-eared humans, who in this case had morality issues and an allergy to sunlight. One of the major reasons this version of the drow became popular was the work of R.A. Salvatore, in his portrayal of the rather melancholy renegade drow Drizzt Do'Urden.

What happened?

The drow all suddenly became cloak and dagger caricatures, smirking and swaggering around in arrogant circles. The fragments that Gygax and his contemporaries produced were swept away under this new hierarchy, and the drow lost their identity. The RPG world was suddenly filled with redemptive anti-hero drow, renegades against the oppressive matriarchy of their society.

This is the seat of my Elf Rage. I loathe this version of the drow, and for several reasons. Cheesy moustache twiddling villains rub me the wrong way, no matter what they are, but losing the elegant inhuman ugliness of the original dark elves was just plain inexcusable. I also find it laughable how some people interpret the drow from a metagame standpoint, in particular the fact that they are depicted with black skin. That's black as in ink, not black as in negroid, though some people seem to have made that mistake on occasion.

As it turns out, a good look at early DnD monsters will reveal some bits and pieces of very old mythology. Svart alfar were the dark elves in Nordic/Germanic myth, and these were the direct basis for the drow themselves. Svart, for those who do not already know, is literally 'black'. It's the root for the word 'swarthy', meaning dark-skinned.

So, why not make them ink-skinned? Take your racial theories elsewhere.

Also, the notion that the matriarchal religion of the drow represented some kind of gamer fear of women is patently ridiculous. I point to the simple fact that, originally, the drow had sexual dimorphism: the dice sets for female stats were better than those for males. The women had better innate magical abilities, and they were even physically bigger than the men. This is in keeping with the arachnid theme of their own deity. Now, perhaps gamer fear of women figured into later depictions, but I refuse to believe it was originally part of the drow aesthetic.

Also, some have complained about the notion of a race that is born evil. Well, why not have a race which is literally born evil? This IS fantasy, after all. It brings up some very interesting questions about morality, of course, but I do not happen to believe that the concept of a race born evil makes everything suddenly black and white, particularly if the evil in question is actually just a very different set of operating parameters. A tiger kills the ox to eat. It is a killing animal, born and created for it. If it were intelligent, would it continue to have this killing instinct? Would it need to exercise that instinct regularly? Would that make it evil in the cosmic sense?

When I designed evil elves for my setting, I wanted to avoid a couple of specific factors involved with the drow. First, the drow society is entirely a construct built by their female demon-goddess Lolth. I try and avoid direct divine intervention as much as possible in world building, saving it for specific circumstances. Second, the drow are basically attacking the surface world because of the usual needs for vengeance, conquest, just plain malice, etc. I wanted something more sophisticated than that, something less human and much less short-term.

This post went on for a bit, so I'll cap it off with a little introduction to the next. It's only fair that, having pig-poled the drow, I should show what my own ideas have been about what an evil elf would be. So, consider this.

The elves were born from the alfar's attempts to understand human symbols and concepts. One among them noticed that humans had some strange ideas about decomposition, decay, and fear. The word corruption as an intangible, moral concept did not exist for the alfar. The alfar noticed that the concept was most often associated with cities, and so the one who chose to study the concept built one. All of those who wanted to study these concepts went to the city, and began the process. Later, that city was sealed off, and their leader told the other alfar that isolation was required for a time.

After a great deal of time the other alfar began to wonder what had happened to their comrades, and they went to the city to alleviate their concerns. What they ended up doing was leveling the city and scorching the surrounding land to nothing but rock.

But what they did not know was that some citizens of Uryashar had long since left the city to walk covertly among the other races. It was not enough for them to study by becoming; they had to continue their study by influencing, manipulating and creating events in the lives of others.

In later days, these once-alfar would be called the Shepherds.

Elf Rage?

2009-05-04T16:18:00.000-07:00

Over at the Burning Zeppelin Experience, there's some excellent talk about Elf Rage, which is something I've both seen and been part of.

I'll be clear. I don't hate elves, or even the concept of elves. I do have elves in my DnD game, and I would cheerfully include them in a fantasy novel. But I hate how they are usually portrayed, especially in modern fantasy literature, and particularly in RPGs. My primary reason for this is simple.

Elves are not humans.

I've touched on this topic before, but it bears repeating. One of the biggest problems in fantasy literature (particularly modern fantasy literature) is that non-human races are basically humans with some odd quirk or physical difference. They are often culturally very limited in comparison with humans, usually only with one basic social pattern ('we love nature' is a fine example). Though this makes a certain degree of sense with particularly long-lived races, as a culture might homogenize itself after a very long time, it's still not very likely. The one exception to that might be if the actual psychology of the race is different from the human norm, but we have already pointed out that in most examples, it Isn't. They act and react like humans, they follow basically human lives under a patina of carefully applied theme, and in most cases are even biologically similar to humans.

That said, my own Elf Rage is mitigated by my acceptance that elves are an archetype of their own. Whatever their depiction, the notion of these otherworldly, beautiful and ancient creatures is ever-present. You may call them something other than elves, and perhaps they have horns instead of pointed ears, but they are still in keeping with the elf archetype. Fantasy stories in particular are replete with the Fair Folk, even if only mentioned. People quickly grasp on to that archetype, and it has been present mythologically for ages. It's easily accessible at its heart, even if the peripheries are silly.

So, what do you do to make an elf separate from the aggravating tropes they've been connected with?

That's the hard part. I do with elves what I do with any non-human race. First I decide what fundamental mode of behavior is intrinsically different in them, and then I carom this facet off of the usual survival mechanisms to see how everything changes. Then I start fitting it into the world I'm placing them, and the rest tends to fall together. I should mention that I am a huge psychology/sociology/anthropology geek, so I have a lot of patterns in my head to play with, and a lot of questions I don't even consciously ask anymore. They just answer themselves eventually.
To make my elves accessible, I do keep a few of the standard concepts behind them, but the way I handle them are considerably different from what I've bumped into in my reading.

My own elves are latecomers. Humanity has been around a lot longer than they have, and one of the big keys to the elf world is that they are trying to understand humans and how they fit into the universe. The elven predecessors, the alfar, did not have a shape of their own. They Became whatever they wanted to be, and that was how they understood something. So, in the beginning, they were clouds and mountains and trees, and in all respects they were clouds and mountains and trees, existing as these things in order to know the greater whole. But then they saw that humans gave meaning beyond what was there, and this puzzled and intrigued them. To the alfar, fire was fire. You didn't need to explain it further than that. To a human, fire could meant security, safety, sometimes emotional warmth, passion, volatility or even anger.

The alfar were astounded, and thought that perhaps humans understood the world on a level that the alfar did not. They did not comprehend symbols at first, but they did what they had always done. They became the symbols in order to understand them. Most of the alfar broke into groups in order to study and meditate on these abstract human concepts, and carefully built themselves a new shape in order to learn. This would be the beginning of the elves, and the relation to human concepts is why elves appear somewhat human. As time went on, some alfar found themselves so deeply absorbed into their study that they lost the power to change again, and these were the first elves, grounded forever into the universe as humans were. Elves are still engaged in their attempt to understand humanity, though some have given up on the process. They've been companions to humanity since the beginning, and though neither really understands the other, humans will always find the elves fascinating and the elves are always drawn to humanity.

The alfar themselves are for the most part gone. Those who did not become elves left the world in shame and outrage because of the studies of one of their own, who found the human concept of corruption fascinating, and built a city to explore it. They leveled the city and departed, leaving behind only a handful of their own to watch over their now-lesser children.

I did keep many pieces of the old elf template. As you can see, I kept the Tolkienesque notion that the elves were connected to one of the world's great evils, innocently stumbling into something that consumed them. The elves do live a long time, but their lifespan depends strongly on what philosophy they were born from. Some only live as long as a human does. Also, this translation of elvenkind accounts for the notion that there must be many different kinds of elf, something that I was merely looking for a good way to explain. If humans have so many ethnicities, why not elves, after all?

So, here you have elves which are walking symbols. Unlike humans, elves really are stereotypes, whatever their personal differences in attitude and opinion. Some elves can always be counted on to be vindictive, for example, and some are always passionate and quick-tempered. It is part of what they are. Humans are amazed at the self-confidence and utter certainty of the elves, and elves wonder at the ever-changing nature of humanity with its shifting boundaries and mutable personalities. This isn't to say that elves do not change their behavior; they do. But elves don't have any illusions about who or what they are. Their illusions are in what they want to become.

This is one reason why the elves fell prey to themselves in the city of Uryashar, and why there are some branches of the elven race which are feared and despised to this day. And no, that wouldn't be the drow. But the drow are a topic for another day. Most of my Elf Rage is vested in that very specific subject.

So, do I support Elf Rage? To a degree, yes, it is justifiable. But all stories use archetypes, and elves have become just another archetype.

Patterns

2009-04-28T10:10:00.001-07:00

One of the facets I enjoy most about reading a series is how the series develops over time. Sometimes you see some remarkable changes in the author's approach. Sometimes the story style itself is very consistent but the characters change tremendously over time. Generally, when I plan a story, I don't intend for it to be part of a series, unless it is a short story or some kind of serialized fiction. But the notion of a series intrigues me. There is potential there for a story of profound depth and power.

The reason why this is on my mind is that I am currently at the far end of the Anita Blake series, by Laurell K. Hamilton. I have not read the most recent four books or so, and I thought I'd get the full experience by starting at the beginning. In part, this is market research; it is a similar genre as the Customs book that I am working on, and it is a very popular series. So, while reading, I am paying attention to how she presents conflict, and how she presents the interactions between the mundane and the supernatural. But I am also noticing how much her series has changed from the beginning.

You can speculate quite a lot on why authors shift things the way they do. I will be the first to admit that I am a writer whose personal life does edge its way into my writing. I can't help it. Writing is a very pure mode of expression, after all. That said, I'll state right out that I enjoyed the early Blake books. They were quirky, interesting, and combined some facets of the mystery genre with the modern supernatural. Being a huge fan of the William Monk series by Anne Perry, I'm definitely fond of mysteries with a lot of personal tension.

(Also, William Monk is hardcore. Don't mess with the man.)

But something happened, and the series changed. I'm currently trying to push through 'Incubus Dreams' right now, and it's a terribly tedious read. I have actually had to put the book down twice because my brain was refusing to participate in yet another pages-long metaphysical scratch-n-sniff discussion of sex magic. Don't get me wrong, I like sexy literature, but it seems like every (small) chapter starts with an orgasmic scream, sometimes in stereo. The Lemur says that the next couple books aren't so bad, and I certainly hope not.

What particularly bothers me is that somewhere along the line, the characters all seemed to have walked into a rut and stayed there. Now, granted, this happens in real life more often than I'd like, but it doesn't tend to make for a very interesting story, particularly when the story is being told from the point of view of one of the people in a rut. I've read books with main characters I loathed before (Thomas Covenant, anyone?) but generally the story and the writing were enough to keep me going, and in the case of obnoxiously defiant Thomas Covenant, it was worth it.

But I don't loathe Anita Blake. She's stubborn, ridiculously sexist and hypocritical, and probably teetering on the edge of psychotic, but I don't loathe her. In fact, a character like that can be very interesting to read about sometimes. But I don't particularly like her either. A character must generate sympathy somehow to be really effective, and I just don't have any with Anita. It's gotten to the point where her initial humanity has faded off to an occasional one-liner of guilt in a growing cloud of dominance contests, sexual politics and all-too-frequent crises in which Anita must save yet another person from harm.

Previously, I had a feel for Anita's progression. Now, I don't feel like she's going anywhere, and the sense of stagnation gets into all of the little cracks and chinks of the story arc. I'm going to finish up the series as it exists at this time, just to see if it changes at all, but at the moment, I am making a lot of mental notes of things I want to avoid in my own writing.

So, why is the series so popular? Melodrama and sex. People love both of these, much as they don't want to admit it, and particularly the later books are full of them. The relationship entanglements combined with Anita's general repression are hilariously complicated, and the level of emotional stress is huge. Which of course, expresses itself in tons of semi-mystical kinky sex.

I'm afraid that I cannot bring myself to write anything so melodramatic, but it does make me aware of one thing. I don't have enough practice writing something sexy, which is something I should be working on. It's important for a writer to explore different venues of inspiration, and writing about sexy topics is not only good exercise but it is aiming at an area of universal appeal. So, this is another lesson I'm learning from rereading the Blake series.

Even the repressed love sexy things, whatever Anita might say.